My eyes volley between them, but only Mustache answers. “We just want to know how well you think you know your boyfriend.”
Do they think Noah had something to do with the accident?
I draw my brows together. “Well enough to know he’d never hurt his friend. He was across the country when this happened. You know that, right?”
The quiet detective shrugs. “And you’re one hundred percent sure about that?”
My blood boils. This has to be a joke. I think back to how uncomfortable he looked when they were questioning him. Unbelievable. He’s devastated over his friend, and they were accusing him of the crime.
I scoff. “Oh, I see what’s happening here. A kid from a prominent wealthy family gets hurt, and you see Noah—all the tattoos, the black clothes—and you assume he’s done something terrible. News flash: Those two love each other like brothers. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Go do your jobs better and catch the person who actually did this to Chase and stop harassing the ones who love him.”
I turn to stalk away, but Mustache Guy lifts his finger. “One more question. Where’s your boyfriend from?”
An irritated huff leaves my chest as my eyes meet with him again.
“Hempstead,” I snap. “It’s in New Hampshire, in case you’re unfamiliar.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what he said too. I guess I’ll just have to check again. It was the weirdest thing. We couldn’t find a Noah Adler from Hempstead.”
I roll my eyes. “I’d say your inadequacies are your problem. Stop making them ours.”
This time, I don’t turn around, instead stalking straight to my sister’s waiting car.
Chapter Nineteen
Noah
October
“Stop eating the meringues,” Chase barks, but I laugh.
“I can’t. That icing tastes like those soft mints you get at fancy hotels.”
Every time he pipes a dollop of that tastiness onto the parchment, I swipe at least one and eat it. He exhales roughly and drops the piping bag down on the steel countertop, staring at me as his kitchen staff works around him.
“Noah.” He inhales harshly, so done with me. “This is not icing.” He waves aggressively in front of the bag that’s tempting my taste buds. “It’s whipped egg whites and sugar. It’s what gives structure to buttercream and macarons.”
I look down and chuckle over the way he said “macarons,” leaning in on the French accent.
“Have you learned nothing during this friendship?” he barks.
“No.” I shrug, completely unapologetic. “It’s tasty. That’s all I need to know. Why are you wound so tight right now?”
His eyes bug out. “Noah, this is my art ...”
“Oh my god—” I breathe out, but thankfully, I’m saved from the “this is my art” lecture as one of his sous chefs brings a small plate for him to taste.
“Chef.”
Chase snatches it, picks up the spoon laid atop, and closes his eyes as he slurps the broth.
“No,” he grinds out. “Do it again. I don’t taste that spark.” He opens and closes his mouth as he tastes whatever’s left over. “Try more basil. And lean in on the feta.”
He hands the plate back, not looking at the guy as he shakes out his right hand while griping at me. “As I was saying. This is my art”—seems I celebrated too soon—“and it’s not every day that I get to make a birthday cake for my favorite future sister-in-law to throw her off the fact that my best friend is going to propose to her.”
I laugh, holding up my hands in surrender. “Fair. I won’t eat any more buttercream structure.”
He points at me, smiling at my phrasing.
